August 15, Thursday

I WAS cleaning the chicken coop when my phone rang and my mother's picture came on the screen.

I sighed. Perfect timing.

I used my elbow to connect the call. "Hi, Mom."

"Hi, Josephine. Are you still in fucking Alabama?"

"Yes, I am."

"Good God. What are you doing?"

I surveyed my rubber gloves and poop-covered boots. "I'm writing, what else?"

"Good. You need to honor your contracts, even if you're writing dreck. It's a matter of principle. We share a fucking name, you know."

I rolled my eyes. "Yes, I know."

"So I talked to my publicist about getting back at Curtis."

I winced. "I don't want to do that, Mom."

"Good, because she said you fucking can't. The man has blown up on Insta so big, he's untouchable. How did that happen?"

"I don't know. Maybe one of his multi-level marketing schemes finally paid off."

"He's so full of shit. I could put a hit on him—I met a guy in Costa Rica who knows a guy."

I smiled. "Thanks anyway, Mom."

"Well, it's a shame you can't do something to get back at that fucking con man—put a curse on him or something."

"Uh-huh."

"Okay, I have to run. I'm having another meeting with that TV producer—I think he's interested in turning one of my books into a feature film."

"That's great, Mom. I hope it works out."

The call ended and I shook my head at her rant. She meant well.

Because as much as I fantasized about paying Curtis back for what he'd done, my thoughts didn't extend to putting a hit on him.

Then I stopped. But her other idea… putting a curse on him.

I needed a witch for that.

Which in Irving, just might be doable.